The image on the screen was gray and difficult to interpret.
I watched as Dr. Evans enlarged one section.
“There’s a surgical clip near your left fallopian tube,” she said. “There’s also scarring consistent with a previous procedure.”
I stared at the screen.
“I’ve never had surgery there.”
Dr. Evans checked my records again.
“There is an abdominal hospitalization from 2008,” she explained, “but the available record describes medication-related treatment.”
My hands suddenly felt cold.
“That was the hospital where I woke up?”
“Yes.”
“Did anyone ever explain exactly what happened?”
Dr. Evans paused.
“You should see a specialist and obtain a complete copy of your medical records. Until you understand what happened, I would avoid confronting anyone based only on what we have today.”
I left with an imaging disc and a referral.
When I returned home, Michael was in the garage repairing a shelf.
“How was your appointment?” he asked.
“Routine.”
He nodded.
“Good.”
I went upstairs and opened the old filing cabinet.
The hospital paperwork from 2008 was incomplete.
Several pages were missing.
One medication listed on the documents was a sedative I had no memory of receiving.
Then I noticed the signature on a consent form.
It wasn’t mine.
It belonged to Michael.
I sat at the kitchen table for a long time.
Our marriage had already been damaged by my affair years earlier. I had accepted responsibility for that decision.
But the discovery in front of me raised an entirely different question:
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